[BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


MY    WITNESS: 


BY 


WILLIAM    WINTER 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKSOR  &  FIELDS,  AXD  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 

1871. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S71, 

BY  JAMES  tt.    OSGOOD   &  CO., 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:   WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


334-1    . 


So  mg 


TIIE    INSPIRATION   OF  WHATEVER   IS   GENTLE  AND 

CHEERFUL   IN  THE   SPIRIT  OF 

THIS   BOOK. 


f 


626151 


CONTENTS. 


OllGIA 

LETIIK 

TIIE  WHITE  FLAG 

EGERIA    . 

LOVE'S  IDEAL 

LOVE'S  CHOICE 

LOVE'S  QUESTION 

LOVE'S  TRIUMPH 

LOVE'S  QUEE'N     . 

THREE  PICTURES     . 

A  FIT.  u  ALL  . 

THE  MERRY  MONARCH 

OLD  TIMES  . 

GEORGE  ARNOLD 

BEYOND  THE  DARK 

BEAUTY    . 

MY  PALACES 

THE  FIFTH  ACT 

THE  OUTCAST 

ACCOMPLICES    . 

PREDESTINED 

RUE 

CHRISTMAS  VERSES 

Two  POETS 


PAGE 
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34 
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68 
71 
73 
75 
77 
80 


vi  CONTENTS. 

ROSEMARY 84 

AZEAEL 88 

SPRAY  :  —  , 

I.    CHARITY 91 

II.    PRESENTIMENT 91 

III.  A  NIGHT  SKY 92 

IV.  A  RELIC 92 

•    V.    FADING  HOPE .93 

VI.    THE  HEART'S  ANCHOR    ....  93 

VII.    DEATH 94 

VIII.    THE  COMFORTER .95 

IX.    EREBUS 95 

X.    BLACK  AND  BLUE  .....  96 

XI.    FREE  AND  EASY 98 

XII.    THE  LAST  SCENE 100 

XIII.  CHOSEN 101 

XIV.  A  CREED 102 

THE  WORLD'S  MARTYR                              .        .  116 


NOTES     .  .128 


MY   WITNESS 


W 


ORGIA: 

A  SONG  OF  RUIN. 

HO  cares  for  nothing  alone  is  free. 
Sit  down,  good  fellow,  and  drink  with 
me. 


With  a  careless  heart  and  a  merry  eye, 

He  will  laugh  at  the  world  as  the  world  goes  by. 

He  laughs  at  power  and  wealth  and  fame ; 
He  laughs  at  virtue,  he  laughs  at  shame ; 

He  laughs  at  hope,  and  he  laughs  at  fear, 
And  at  memory's  dead  leaves,  crisp  and  sere  : 


10  MY  WITNESS. 

He  laughs  at  the  future,  cold  and  dim,— 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  dear  to  him. 

0  that  is  the  comrade  fit  for  me  : 

He  cares  for  nothing,  his  soul  is  free, 

Free  as  the  soul  of  the  fragrant  wine : 
Sit  down,  good  fellow  —  my  heart  is  thine. 

For  I  heed  not  custom,  creed,  nor  law ; 

1  care  for  nothing  that  ever  I  saw. 

In  every  city  my  cups  I  quaff, 

And  over  my  liquor  I  riot  and  laugh. 

I  laugh  like  the  cruel  and  turbulent  wave  ; 
I  laugh  at  the  church,  and  I  laugh  at  the  grave. 

I  laugh  at  joy,  and  well  I  know 
That  I  merrily,  merrily  laugh  at  woe. 


ORGIA.  11 

I  terribly  laugh,  with  an  oath  and  a  sneer, 
When  I  think  that  the  hour  of  death  is  near. 

For  I  know  that  Death  is  a  guest  divine, 
Who  shall  drink  my  blood  as  I  drink  this  wine. 

And  He  cares  for  nothing !  a  king  is  He  ! « 
Come  on,  old  fellow,  and  drink  with  me ! 

With  you  I  will  drink  to  the  solemn  Past, 
Though  the  cup  that  I  drain  should  be  my  last. 

I  will  drink  to  the  phantoms  of  love  and  truth  ; 
To  ruined  manhood  and  wasted  youth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  woman  who  wrought  my  woe, 
In  the  diamond  morning  of  Long  Ago  ; 

To  a  heavenly  face,  in  sweet  repose  ; 

To  the  lily's  snow  and  the  blood  of  the  rose ; 


12  MY  WITNESS. 

To  the  splendor,  caught  from  orient  skies, 
That  thrilled  in  the  dark  of  her  hazel  eves,  — 

Her  large  eyes,  wild  with  the  fire  of  the  south,— 
And  the  dewy  wine  of  her  warm,  red  mouth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  thought  of  a  better  time  ; 

• 

To  innocence,  gone  like  a  death-bell  chime. 

I  will  drink  to  the  shadow  of  coming  doom  ; 
To  the  phantoms  that  wait  in  my  lonely  tomb. 

I  will  drink  to  my  soul  in  its  terrible  mood, 
Dimly  and  solemnly  understood. 

And,  last  of  all,  to  the  Monarch  of  Sin, 
Who  has  conquered  that  fortress  and  reigns 
within. 

My  sight  is  fading,  —  it  dies  away,  — 
I  cannot  tell  —  is  it  night  or  day. 


ORGIA.  13 

My  heart  is  burnt  and  blackened  with  pain, 
And  a  horrible  darkness  crushes  my  brain. 

I  cannot  see  you.     The  end  is  nigh  ; 
But  —  we  '11  laugh  together  before  1  die. 

Through  awful  chasms  I  plunge  and  fall ! 
Your  hand,  good  fellow!     I  die,  —  that 's  all. 


LETHE: 

A  SOXG  OF  REST. 
I. 

SWEET  oblivion,  blood  of  grape, 
Let  me  take  thy  hue  and  shape ! 
Flood  this  weary  heart  of  mine ! 
Change  it  into  ruddy  wine ! 
Through  my  veins,  with  golden  glow, 
Fiery  spirit,  flash  and  flow  ! 
Deify  this  clod  of  clay, 
And  waft  my  willing  soul  away ! 

n. 

Sick  and  sad  my  fancies  are,  — 
Tired  of  peace  and  tired  of  war. 


LETHE.  15 

Joke  of  jester,  prank  of  clown 
Weigh  my  heavy  eyelids  down. 
All  philosophies  are  drear ; 
Music  's  jargon  in  my  ear ; 
Endless  tides  of  empty  talk 
Bubble  round  me  where  I  walk ; 
I  am  deafened  by  the  din 
That  the  world  is  wrangling  in  ; 
I  am  tired  of  woe  and  bliss ; 
I  am  sick  of  all  that  is ! 

in. 

God  of  sunrise,  purple  wine, 
Let  me  lose  my  soul  in  thine  ! 
Close  my  eyes  and  stop  my  ears 
To  all  a  mortal  sees  and  hears  :  — 
Roll  of  drums  and  clash  of  swords, 
Fretful  snarl  of  angry  words, 
Church  and  state  and  bond  and  free, 
Party,  creed,  and  policy, 


16  MY  WITNESS. 

Tattle,  prattle,  laugh,  and  groan, 
Crozier,  sceptre,  flag,  and  throne, 
Foolish  press,  and  grand  debate 
Which  of  moles  is  small  or  great, 
Who  shall  be  prayed  for,  who  shall  pray, 
And  what(the  foreign  critics  say. 
All  avails  not ;  might  is  right ; 
Life  is  vapid,  —  day  is  night. 

IV. 

Sun  of  rubies,  fiery  wine, 

Burn  my  being  into  thine  ! 

So  my  dream  of  death  shall  bless 

Memory  with  forgetfulness. 

No  more  weary,  wasting  thought 

On  a  past  so  folly-fraught ! 

No  more  dreams  of  love-lit  eyes, 

And  silken  hair,  and  tender  sighs, 

And  kisses,  wild  and  sweet,  that  shake 

The  frame  of  being  !  —  poor  mistake  ! 


LETHE.  17 

Nor  that  other,  just  as  poor,  — 
Toil  for  praise  of  sage  or  boor ; 
Fire,  that  burnishes  a  crown, 
Fire,  that  burns  a  kingdom  down, 
Fire,  that  ravages  his  breast 
Who  takes  ambition  for  his  guest ! 
But  at  last,  instead  of  these, 
Sunset  cloud,  and  evening  breeze, 
Holy  starlight  shining  dim, 
Organ  wail,  and  vesper  hymn, 
Cypress  wreath,  and  asphodels, 
Gentle  toll  of  distant  bells, — 
All  that  makes  the  sleeper  blest, 
In  a  bed  of  endless  rest. 

v. 

When  this  farce  of  life  is  o'er, 
Are  we  fretted  any  more  ? 
Do  they  rest,  I  'd  like  to  know, 
Under  grass  or  under  snow, 
2 


18  MY  WITNESS. 

Who  have  gone  that  quiet  way 

You  and  I  must  go,  some  day  ? 

If  they  do,  it  seems  to  me 

Happy  were  it  thus  to  be 

Sleeping  where  the  blackberries  grow, 

And  the  bramble-roses  blow, 

And  the  sunshine  pours  its  gold 

On  mossy  rock  and  woodland  old, 

While  gentle  winds  and  clouds  of  fleece 

And  rippling  waters  whisper  —  Peace ! 

VI. 

Vain  the  fancy :  nothing  dies : 
Falling  water  falls  to  rise  ; 
Round  and  round  the  atoms  fly,  — 
Turf  and  stone  and  sea  and  sky, 
Vapor-drop  and  blood  of  man, — 
In  the  inexorable  plan. 
All  is  motion :  nothing  dies : 
Mystery  of  mysteries. 


LETHE.  19 

VII. 

Royal  road  of  blest  escape  ! 
Sweet  oblivion,  blood  of  grape, 
Let  me  take  thy  hue  and  shape ! 
In  thy  spirit  floating  free, 
I  shall  be  a  revery, 
A  flitting  thought,  a  fading  dream, 
A  melting  cloud,  a  faint  moonbeam, 
A  breath,  a  niist,  a  ghost  of  light, 
To  rise  and  vanish  in  the  night,  — 
Unseeing  all,  by  all  unseen, 
And  being  as  I  had  not  been. 


THE  WHITE  FLAG. 

i. 

BRING  poppies  for  a  weary  mind 
That  saddens  in  a  senseless  din, 
And  let  my  spirit  leave  behind 
A  world  of  riot  and  of  sin,  — 
In  action's  torpor  deaf  and  blind. 

Bring  poppies  —  that  I  may  forget ! 

Bring  poppies  —  that  I  may  not  learn  ! 
But  bid  the  audacious  sun  to  set, 

And  bid  the  peaceful  starlight  burn 
O'er  buried  memory  and  regret. 

Then  shall  the  slumberous  grasses  grow 
Above  the  bed  wherein  I  sleep ; 


THE    WHITE  FLAG.  21 

"While  winds  I  love  shall  softly  blow, 
And  dews  I  love  shall  softly  weep, 
O'er  rest  and  silence  hid  below. 

Bring  poppies,  —  for  this  work  is  vain ! 

I  cannot  mould  the  clay  of  life. 
A  stronger  hand  must  grasp  the  rein, 

A  stouter  arm  annul  the  strife, 
A  braver  heart  defy  the  pain. 

Youth  was  my  friend, — but  Youth  had  wings, 
And  he  has  flown  unto  the  day, 

And  left  me,  in  a  night  of  things, 
Bewildered,  on  a  lonesome  way, 

And  careless  what  the  future  brings. 

Let  there  be  sleep !  nor  any  more 
The  noise  of  useless  deed  or  word ; 

While  the  free  spirit  wanders  o'er 
A  sea  where  not  one  wave  is  stirred, 

A  sea  of  dreams,  without  a  shore. 


22  MY  WITNESS. 

II. 
Dark  Angel,  counselling  defeat, 

I  see  thy  mournful,  tender  eyes  ; 
I  hear  thy  voice,  so  faint,  so  sweet, 

And  very  dearly  should  I  prize 
Thy  perfect  peace,  thy  rest  complete. 

But  is  it  rest  to  vanish  hence, 
To  mix  with  earth  or  sea  or  air  ? 

Is  death  indeed  a  full  defence 
Against  the  tyranny  of  care  ? 

Or  is  it  cruellest  pretence  ? 

And  if  an  hour  of  peace  draws  nigh, 
Shall  we,  who  know  the  arts  of  war, 

Turn  from  the  field  and  basely  fly, 
Nor  take  what  fate  reserves  us  for, 

Because  we  dream  't  were  sweet  to  die  ? 

"What  shall  the  untried  warriors  do, 
If  we,  the  battered  veterans,  fail  ? 


THE    WHITE  FLAG.  23 

How  strive  and  suffer  and  be  true, 

In  storms  that  make  our  spirits  quail, 
Except  our  valor  lead  them  through  ? 

Though  for  ourselves  we  droop  and  tire, 
Let  us  at  least  for  them  be  strong. 

'T  is  but  to  bear  familiar  fire ; 
Life  at  the  longest  is  not  long, 

And  peace  at  last  will  crown  desire. 

So,  Death,  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak  ! 

But  I  will  labor  —  and  endure 
All  storms  of  pain  that  time  can  wreak  .  .  . 

My  flag  be  white  because  't  is  pure, 
And  not  because  my  soul  is  weak ! 


EGERIA. 

THE  star  I  worship  shines  alone, 
In  native  grandeur  set  apart ; 
Its  light,  its  beauty,  all  my  own, 
And  imaged  only  in  my  heart. 

The  flower  I  love  lifts  not  its  face 
For  other  eyes  than  mine  to  see ; 

And,  having  lost  that  sacred  grace, 
'T  would  have  no  other  charm  for  me. 

The  hopes  I  bear,  the  joys  I  feel, 
Are  silent,  secret,  and  serene ; 

Pure  is  the  shrine  at  which  I  kneel, 
And  Purity  herself  my  Queen. 


EGERIA.  25 

I  would  not  have  an  impious  gaze 
Profane  the  altar  where  arc  laid 

My  hopes  of  nobler,  grander  days, 
By  heaven  inspired,  by  earth  betrayed. 

I  would  not  have  the  noontide  sky 

Pour  down  its  bold,  obtrusive  light 
Where  all  the  springs  of  feeling  lie, 

Deep  in  the  soul's  celestial  night. 

« 

Far  from  the  weary  strife  and  noise, 
The  tumult  of  the  great  To-Day, 

I  guard  my  own  congenial  joys, 
And  keep  my  own  sequestered  way. 

For  all  that  world  is  cursed  with  care  ; 

Has  nothing  holy,  nothing  dear, 
No  light,  no  music  anywhere, — 

It  will  not  see,  it  will  not  hear. 


26  MY  WITNESS. 

But  Thou,  sweet  Spirit,  viewless  Power, 
Whom  I  have  loved  and  trusted  long,  — 

In  pleasure's  day,  in  sorrow's  hour,  — 
Muse  of  my  life  and  of  my  song ; 

Breathe  softly,  Thou,  with  peaceful  voice, 
In  my  soul's  temple,  vast  and  dim ! 

In  thine  own  perfect  joy  rejoice, 

With  morning  and  with  evening  hymn  ! 

And  though  my  hopes  around  me  fall 
Like  rain-drops  in  a  boundless  sea, 

I  will  not  think  I  lose  them  all 

While  yet  I  keep  my  trust  in  Thcc ! 


LOVE'S  IDEAL. 

HER  young  face  is  good  and  fair, 
Lily-white  and  rosy-red ; 
And  the  brown  and  silken  hair 
Hovers,  mist-like,  round  her  head. 

And  her  voice  is  soft  and  low, 
Clear  as  music  and  as  sweet ; 

Hearing  it,  you  hardly  know 
Where  tho  sound  and  silence  meet. 


All  the  magic  who  can  tell 

Of  her  laughter  and  her  sighs  ? 

Or  what  heavenly  meanings  dwell 
In  her  kind,  confiding  eyes  ? 


28  MY   WITNESS. 

Pretty  lips,  as  rubies  bright, 
Scarcely  hide  the  tiny  pearls  ; 

Little  wandering  stars  of  light 
Love  to  nestle  in  her  curls. 

All  her  ways  are  winning  ways, 
Full  of  tenderness  and  grace  ; 

And  a  witching  sweetness  plays 
Fondly  o'er  her  gentle  face. 

True  and  pure  her  soul  within,  — 
Breathing  a  celestial  air ! 

Evil  and  the  shame  of  sin 

Could  not  dwell  one  moment  there. 

Is  it  but  a  vision,  this  ? 

Fond  creation  of  the  brain  ? 
Phantom  of  a  fancied  bliss  ? 

Type  of  beauty  void  and  vain  ? 


LOVE'S  IDEAL.  29 

No !  the  tides  of  being  roll 

Toward  a  heaven  that 's  yet  to  be, 

Where  this  idol  of  my  soul 

Waits  and  longs  for  love  and  me ! 


LOVE'S  CHOICE. 

THE  stroller  in  the  pensive  field 
Doth  many  a  wildering  flower  descry 
Sometimes  to  him  the  Roses  yield  ; 

Sometimes  the  Lilies  feed  his  eye ; 
Sometimes  he  takes  delight  in  one, 
Sometimes  in  all,  sometimes  in  none. 

But  when,  in  dusky  woodland  ways, 
He  sees,  beside  some  dreaming  stone, 

The  fresh,  untutored  Violet  raise 
Her  pleading  eyes  for  him  alone, 

Then  makes  his  heart  its  final  choice, 

And  Nature  speaks  in  Passion's  voice. 


LOVE'S   CHOICE.  31 

The  stroller  beauty's  garden  through,  — 
By  many  a  wayward  impulse  led, — 

Sometimes  is  charmed  by  gold  and  blue, 
Sometimes  by  brown  and  mantling  red  ; 

Sometimes  proud  dame  and  maiden  small 

Please  just  the  same,  or  not  at  all. 

But  when,  remote  from  pleasure's  whirl, 
He  sees,  at  home's  sequestered  shrine, 

The  ardent,  cheerful,  guileless  girl, 
Of  mortal  mould,  but  soul  divine, — 

Too  good,  too  beautiful,  to  know 

How  fair  her  worth  and  beauty  show ; 

Then  all  his  roving  fancies  pause, 

Entranced  by  this  o'er  whelming  grace  ; 

It  rules  him  by  celestial  laws, 
It  lights  a  splendor  in  his  face  : 

'T  is  the  best  good  that  Heaven  can  give  : 

He  wins  it  —  and  begins  to  live. 


LOVE'S   QUESTION. 

BECAUSE  love's  sigh  is  but  a  sigh, 
Doth  it  the  less  love's  heart  disclose  ? 
Because  the  rose  must  fade  and  die, 

Is  it  the  less  the  lovely  rose  ? 
Because  black  night  must  shroud  the  day, 
Shall  the  brave  sun  no  more  be  gay  ? 

Because  chill  autumn  frights  the  birds, 
Shall  we  distrust  that  spring  will  come  ? 

Because  sweet  words  are  only  words, 
Shall  love  forevermore  be  dumb  ? 

Because  our  bliss  is  fleeting  bliss, 

Shall  we  who  love  forbear  to  kiss  ? 


LOVE'S  QUESTION.  33 

Because  those  eyes  of  gentle  mirth 

Must  some  time  cease  my  heart  to  thrill, 

Because  the  sweetest  voice  on  earth 
Sooner  or  later  must  be  still, 

Because  its  idol  is  unsure, 

Shall  my  strong  love  the  less  endure  ? 

Ah  no  !  let  lovers  breathe  their  sighs, 
And  roses  bloom,  and  music  sound, 

And  passion  burn  on  lips  and  eyes, 
And  pleasure's  merry  world  go  round  : 

Let  golden  sunshine  flood  the  sky, 

And  let  me  love,  or  let  me  die  ! 


LOVE'S  TRIUMPH. 

SURGE  up  in  wanton  waves  to-day, 
Ye  Memories  of  a  restless  Past ! 
In  shine  and  shadow  glance  and  play,  — 
This  golden  moment  is  your  last. 

Float,  Phantoms,  o'er  a  sapphire  sea,  — 
Remembered  joy,  remembered  pain, 

Passions  and  fears  that  used  to  be, 
But  never  can  be  mine  again. 

Sweet  Visions,  faded  long  ago, 
So  beautiful,  and  once  so  dear,  — 

That  wrought  my  bliss,  that  wrought  my  woe, 
Your  welcome  and  farewell  are  here. 


LOVE'S    TRIUMPH.  35 

For  now  no  more  can  fancy  wile 

My  steadfast  soul  with  dreams  untrue. 

I  give  you  each  a  parting  smile, 
I  give  you  all  a  glad  adieu. 

Henceforth  for  me  the  Past  is  dead, 
And  buried  deep  in  Lethean  waves. 

Firm  is  the  ground  whereon  I  tread, 
That  will  not  know  the  shape  of  graves. 

As  one  whose  soul,  in  second  birth, 
Attains  its  natural  height  and  scope, 

I  spurn  away  the  dust  of  earth, 
I  scale  the  radiant  peaks  of  hope. 

The  sunshine  wraps  me  in  its  arms, 
North-winds  of  power  around  me  blow, 

And  heaven  's  ablaze  with  starry  charms 
To  bless  the  path  whereon  I  go. 


36  MY   WITNESS. 

For  mine  is  now  the  ardent  truth 
And  secret  of  the  lover's  kiss ; 

The  valley  of  immortal  youth ; 

The  sacred  mountain-height  of  bliss. 


LOVE'S   QUEEN. 

HE  loves  not  well  whose  love  is  bold  ! 
I  would  not  have  thee  come  too  nigh. 
The  sun's  gold  would  not  seem  pure  gold 

Unless  the  sun  were  in  the  sky  : 
To  take  him  thence  and  chain  him  near 
Would  make  his  beauty  disappear. 

He  keeps  his  state,  —  do  thou  keep  thine, 

And  shine  upon  me  from  afar ! 
So  shall  I  bask  in  light  divine 

That  falls  from  Love's  own  guiding  star. 
So  shall  thy  eminence  be  high, 
And  so  my  passion  shall  not  die. 


38  MY  WITNESS. 

But  all  my  life  shall  reach  its  hands 
Of  lofty  longing  toward  thy  face, 

And  be  as  one  who  speechless  stands 
In  rapture  at  some  perfect  grace. 

My  love,  my  hope,  my  all,  shall  be 

To  look  to  heaven  and  look  to  thee. 

Thine  eyes  shall  be  the  heavenly  lights  ; 

Thy  voice  shall  be  the  summer  breeze, 
What  time  it  sways,  on  moonlit  nights, 

The  murmuring  tops  of  leafy  trees ; 
And  I  will  touch  thy  beauteous  form 
In  June's  red  roses,  rich  and  warm. 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  come  not  down 
From  that  pure  region  far  above  ; 

But  keep  thy  throne  and  wear  thy  crown, 
Queen  of  my  heart  and  queen  of  love ! 

A  monarch  in  thy  realm  complete, 

And  I  a  monarch  —  at  thy  feet ! 


THREE    PICTURES. 

BESIDE  THE  SEA. 
I. 

THEY  walked  beside  the  summer  sea, 
And  watched  the  slowly  dying  sun  ; 
And  "  0,"  she  said,  "  come  back  to  me, 

My  love,  my  own,  my  only  one !  " 
But,  while  he  kissed  her  fears  away, 

The  gentle  waters  kissed  the  shore, 
And,  sadly  whispering,  seemed  to  say, 

He  '11  come  no  more  !  he  '11  come  no  more  ! 


n. 


Alone  beside  the  autumn  sea, 

She  watched  the  sombre  death  of  day ; 


40  MY  WITNESS. 

And  "  0,"  she  said,  "  remember  me, 
And  love  me,  darling,  far  away  !  " 

A  cold  wind  swept  the  watery  gloom, 
And,  darkly  whispering  on  the  shore, 

Sighed  out  the  secret  of  his  doom,  — 

He  '11  come  no  more  !  he  '11  come  no  more  ! 

m. 

In  peace  beside  the  winter  sea, 

A  white  grave  glimmers  in  the  moon  ; 
And  waves  are  fresh,  and  clouds  are  free, 

And  shrill  winds  pipe  a  careless  tune. 
One  sleeps  beneath  the  dark  blue  wave, 

And  one  upon  the  lonely  shore  ; 
But,  joined  in  love  beyond  the  grave, 

They  part  no  more  !  they  part  no  more  ! 


AFTER    ALL. 

1862. 

THE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 
And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage  door  the  grandsire 

Sits,  pale,  in  his  easy-chair, 
While  a  gentle  wind  of  twilight 

Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  prest, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 


42  MY  WITNESS. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come, 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

Then  the  grandsire  speaks,  in  a  whisper,  — 

"  The  end  no  man  can  see  ; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee.".  .  . 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 

The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still, 
There  's  a  nameless  grave  on  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 


AFTER   ALL. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 
By  the  cold  hearth  sits,  alone  ; 

And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 
Ticks  oil  with  a  steady  drone. 


43 


THE  MERRY  MONARCH. 

i. 

IT  comes  into  my  mind,  —  in  a  genial  mood, 
When  the  worlds  of  my  being,  without  and 

within, 
Are  quietly  happy  in  all  that  is  good, 

Unclouded  by  care  and  untempted  by  sin, — 
If  the  gods  would  but  grant  me  my  dearest 

desire, 
As  I  fancy,  sometimes,  they  're  inclining  to 

do, 
That  I  should  n't  sit  here,  looking  into  the 

fire, 

And  dreaming,  my  love,  as  I  'rn  dreaming 
of  you. 


THE  MERRY  MONARCH.  45 

II. 

Nor  should  I  be  thinking,  as  sometimes  I  am,  — 
If  the  gods  had  but  made  me  the  thing  I 

would  be,  — 

That  a  station  of  rank,  in  a  -world  full  of  sham, 

Were  a  pleasant  and  suitable  station  for  me. 

Nor  should  I  be  striving,  with  heart  and  with 

brain, 
For  the  laurel  that  poets  are   anxious  to 

wear,  — 

That  dubious  guerdon  for  labor  and  pain, 
That  sorry  exchange  for  the  natural  hair. 


in. 

No  !  I  never  should  care,  if  I  had  my  own  way, 
For  the  storm  or  the  sunshine,  the  Yes  or 
the\Nb ; 

But,  quietly  careless,  and  perfectly  gay, 
I  could  let  the  world  go  as  it  wanted  to  go. 


46  MY  WITNESS. 

I  should  ask  neither  riches,  nor  station,  nor 

power ; 
They  are  chances,  they  happen,  and  there 

is  an  end ; 

But  a  heart  that  beats  merrily  every  hour 
Is  a  god's  richest  gift,  is  a  man's  truest 
friend. 

IV. 

And  that 's  what  I  'd  have  !     For  that  blessing 

I  pray ! 

A  spirit  so  gentle  and  easy  and  bright, 
It  should  gladden  with  sunshine  the  sunniest 

day, 
And   with   magical    splendor    illumine   the 

night. 
I  could  envy  no  potentate  under  the  sun, 

However  sublime  might  that  potentate  be  ; 
For  I  'd  live,  the  illustrious  Monarch  of  Fun, 
And  the  rest  of  the  world  should  be  happy 
with  me. 


THE  MERRY  MONARCH.  47 

V. 
I  'd  be   gold  in  the  sunshine  and  silver  in 

showers ; 
I  'd  be  rainbows,  and  clouds  all  of  purple  and 

pearl ; 
And  the  fairies  of  fun  should  laugh  out  of  the 

flowers, 

And  the  jolly  old  earth  should  be  all  in  a  whirl ! 
The  brooks  should  trill  music,  the  leaves  dance 

in  glee, 

And  old  ocean  should  bellow  with  surly  de- 
light : 

0,  but  would  n't  it  be  a  tempestuous  spree, 
If  the  gods  did  but  grant  me  my  kingdom 
to-night ! 

VI. 

And  I  think  it  will  come,  —  that  succession  of 

mine, 
That  crown  with  the  opals  of  jollity  set ; 


48  MY   WITNESS. 

And  the  joy  in  my  soul  will  be   something 

divine 

When  I  finally  teach  myself  how  to  forget ; 
Forget  all  of  sorrow  in  which  I  've  a  part, 
All  the  dreams  that  allure  and  the  hopes  that 

betray,  — 

Contented  to  wait,  with  a  right  merry  heart, 
For  a  home  and  a  grave  at  the  end  of  the 
play. 


OLD    TIMES. 

ROSY  days  of  youth  and  fancy ! 
Happy  hours  of  Long  Ago  ! 
Ah,  the  playful,  pictured  memories, — 
Let  us  catch  them  as  they  flow ! 

Galaxies  of  blue-eyed  Marys, 

With  a  Julia,  or  a  Jane, 
Or  a  troop  of  little  Lauras, 

Blush  and  laugh  and  romp  again. 

Moonlight  meetings,  evening  rambles, 
When  the  night  was  still  around, 

And  a  sweet  voice,  softly  murmuring, 
Or  a  kiss,  the  only  sound. 

4 


50  MY   WITNESS. 

These  remember,  —  and  remember 
How  the  kind  stars  shone  above, 

Keeping,  in  their  mellow  splendor, 
Watch  and  ward  upon  our  love. 

Youth  is  as  a  diamond  dawning,  — 
Bold  it  breaks  to  gorgeous  day ; 

Heavenly  lights  of  power  and  beauty 
Glance  and  gleam  along  its  way. 

Far  within  the  mighty  future 
There  be  solemn  voices  heard  ; 

Shaped  to  many  a  stately  anthem, 
Floats  the  music  of  a  word. 

But  that  music,  in  the  present, 
Softly  droops,  with  sad  decay, 

Till  its  echo,  in  the  spirit, 

Faints,  arid  fails,  and  dies  away. 


OLD   TIMES. 


51 


Green  be,  then,  the  tender  memory 

Of  the  Past,  forever  sped, 
So  that  youth  may  be  immortal, 

Though  its  days  and  dreams  are  dead ! 


GEORGE    ARNOLD. 

GREENWOOD,  NOVEMBER  13,  1865. 

BENEATH  the  still  November  sky, 
With  Nature's  peace  and  beauty  blest, 
We  put  our  selfish  sorrow  by, 

And  laid  our  loved  one  down  to  rest. 

Rest  —  in  the  morning  of  his  days ! 

Rest  —  when  his  heart  had  just  begun 
To  feel  the  warmth  of  all  men's  praise, 

The  radiance  of  the  rising  sun  ! 

Rest  —  to  a  strong  and  stately  mind, 
That  rose  all  common  flights  above  ! 


GEORGE  'ARNOLD.  53 

Rest  —  to  a  heart  as  true  and  kind 
As  ever  glowed  with  human  love  ! 

And  round  him,  dimly  through  our  grief., 
In  every  natural  sound  we  heard  — 

In  whispering  grass,  and  rustling  leaf, 

And  sighing  wind  —  the  same  sweet  word  : 

Rest !    And  we  did  not  break  the  spell, 

By  holy  Nature  cast  around 
The  fading  form  we  left  to  dwell 

Forever  in  her  hallowed  ground. 

No  hymns  were  sung,  no  prayers  were  said, 
Save  what  our  loving  hearts  could  say, 

"When,  gazing  mutely  on  the  dead, 
We  blessed  him  ere  we  turned  away : 

Back  to  the  round  of  daily  care 
That  seems  so  vacant  to  us  now, 

Remembering  what  repose  was  there, 
What  peace,  upon  his  marble  brow. 


54  MY  WITNESS. 

And  so  we  left  him,  —  nevermore 

To  see,  in  sunshine  or  in  rain, 
The  semblance  of  the  form  he  wor 

"Whose  loss  has  steeped  our  souls  in  pain. 

But,  long  as  skies  of  autumn  smile, 
And  long  as  clouds  of  autumn  weep, 

Or  autumn  leaves  their  splendors  pile 
In  sorrow  o'er  their  poet's  sleep ; 

And  long  as  violets  grace  the  spring, 
Or  June-born  roses  blush  and  blow, 

Or  pale  stars  shine,  or  south- winds  sing, 
Or  tides  of  summer  ebb  and  flow  ; 

So  long  shall  live  their  poet's  name, 

When  rest  these  broken  hearts  of  ours,  — 

Embalmed  in  love,  surpassing  fame, 

With    stars    and    leaves    and   clouds    and 
flowers  ! 


BEYOND    THE    DARK. 

THERE  's  a  region  afar  from  earth 
Should  be  very  ^appy  to-day, 
For  a  sweet  soul,  ripe  for  its  birth, 
Has  gone  from  this  world  away. 

And  I  think,  as  I  sit  alone, 

While  the  night  is  falling  around, 

Of  a  cold,  white,  gleaming  stone, 
And  a  long,  lone  grassy  mound  ; 

And  of  what  rests  under  the  sod, — 
The  poor,  pale  face  ;  the  still  brain, 

Left  awfully  still  by  the  spirit  of  God 
That  has  gone  to  Him  again  ; 


56  MY   WITNESS. 

The  eyes  that  will  shine  no  more, 

The  hands  that  have  done  their  task  ;  — 

And  my  heart  is  heavy  and  sore, 
And  my  mind  is  hungry  to  ask 

If  all,  indeed,  be  well 

In  the  realms  beyond  the  dark  ; 

What  secret  the  pallid  lips  could  tell 

\ 

Of  that  body  so  quiet  and  stark. 

But  there  comes  a  murmur  of  trees, 
That  wave  their  arms,  and  bring 

Buds,  blossoms,  and  leaves  to  shake  in  the 

breeze, 
From  spring  to  spring ; 

And  they  whisper  that  all  is  well, 
For  the  same  Hand  guides  us  all, 

"Whether  't  is  seen  in  a  man's  death-knell, 
Or  in  the  leaves  that  fall. 


BEYOND   THE  DARK.  57 

And  so  many  have  gone  before, 
That  the  voice  of  another  sphere 

Floats  often  from  over  a  sable  shore, 
And  pierces  the  mist  of  fear. 

0  tender  heart  that  is  still, 

You  will  falter  with  trouble  no  more, 
Nor  know  of  the  good  or  the  ill 

Of  a  frantic  world's  uproar ! 

Nor  heed  the  great  or  the  small 

Of  a  strange,  bewildering  life, 
That  often  seems  dust  and  ashes  all, 

And  is  mostly  a  vapid  strife. 

For  the  end  is  the  peace  of  grass, 

And  God's  peace,  ever  to  be  : 
The  one  for  us  to  feel  as  we  pass, 

The  other  enshrining  thee. 


58  MY  WITNESS. 

Clouds  sail,  and  waters  flow, 
And  our  souls  must  journey  on ; 

But  it  cannot  be  ill  to  go 
The  way  that  thou  hast  gone. 


BEAUTY. 

I  HAD  a  dream,  one  glorious  summer  night, 
In  the  rich  bosom  of  imperial  June. 
Languid  I  lay,  upon  an  odorous  couch, 
Golden  with  amber,  festooned  wildly  o'er 
With  crimson  roses,  and  the  longing  stars 
Wept  tears  of  love  upon  their  clustered  leaves. 
Above  me  soared  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
Vast  and  majestic  ;  cinctured  with  that  path 
Whereby,  perchance,  the  sea-born  Venus  found 
Her  way  to  higher  spheres ;  that  path  which 

seems 

A  coronet  of  silver,  gemmed  with  stars, 
And  bound  upon  the  forehead  of  young  night. 


60  MY  WITNESS. 

There,  as  I  lay,  the  musical  south-wind 
Shook  all  the  roses  into  murmurous  life, 
And  poured  their  fragrance  o'er  me  in  a  shower 
Of  crimson  mist ;  and  softly,  through  the  mist, 
Came  a  low,  sweet,  enchanting  melody, 
A  far-off  echo  from  a  land  of  dreams, 
Which  with  delicious  languor  filled  the  air, 
And  steeped  in  bliss  the  senses  and  the  soul. 

Then  rose  a  shape,  —  a  dim  and  ghostly  shape, 
Whereto  no  feature  was,  nor  settled  form,  — 
A  shadowy  splendor,  seeming  as  it  came 
A  pearly   summer   cloud    shot    through   and 

through 

With  faintest  rays  of  sunset ;  yet  within 
A  spirit  dwelt ;  and,  floating  from  within, 
A  murmur  trembled  sweetly  into  words  :  — 

I  am  the  ghost  of  a  most  lovely  dream, 
Which  haunted,  in  old  days,  a  poet's  mind. 


BEAUTY.  61 

And  long  he  sought  for,  wept,  and  prayed  for 

me  ; 
And  searched  through  all  the  chambers  of  his 

soul, 

And  searched  the  secret  places  of  the  earth, 
The  lonely  forest  and  the  lonely  shore, 
And  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  sea, 
What  time  the  stars  shone  out,  and  midnight 

cold 

Slept  on  the  dark  waves  whispering  at  his  feet ; 
And  sought  the  mystery  in  a  human  form, 
Amid  the  haunts  of  men,  and  found  it  not ; 
And  looked  in  woman's  fond,  bewildering  eyes, 
And  mirrored  there  his  own,  and  saw  no  sign : 
But  only  in  his  sleep  I  came  to  him, 
And  gave  him  fitful  glimpses  of  my  face, 
Whereof  he  after  sang  in  sweetest  words  ; 
Then  died,  and  came  to  me.     But  evermore, 
Through   lonely   days   and   wakeful,    haunted 

nights, 


62  MY  WITNESS. 

A  life  of  star-lit  gloom,  do  poets  seek 
To  snatch  the  mystic  veil  that  covers  me, 
And  evermore  they  grasp  the  empty  air. 
For  only  in  their  dreams  I  come  to  them, 
And  give  them  fitful  glimpses  of  my  face, 
And  lull  them,  siren-like,  with  words  of  hope 
That  promise,  some  time,  to  their  ravished  eyes, 
Beauty,  the  secret  of  the  universe, 
God's  thought,  that  gives  the  soul  eternal  peace. 

Then  the  voice  ceased,  and  only  on  my  ears 
The  shaken  roses  murmured,  and  the  wind. 


THEY  rose  in  beauty  on  the  plains 
Through  which  my  childhood  danced  in 

glee, 

When  roses  wreathed  my  idle  chains, 
And  holy  angels  talked  with  me. 

They  rose  sublime  on  mountain  heights 
Whereto  my  ardent  youth  aspired,  — 

Through  silver  days  and  golden  nights, 
Ere  yet  my  heart  grew  dull  and  tired. 

Their  stately  towers  were  all  aflame 
With  rosy  hues  of  morning  light, 


64  MY   WITNESS. 

For  hope  and  love  and  power  and  fame 

Burned  on  their  peaks  and  made  them  bright. 

Now,  brown  and  level  fields  expand 

Around  me,  as  I  hold  my  way 
Through  barren  hills  on  cither  hand, 

And  under  skies  of  sober  gray. 

No  radiant  towers  in  distance  rise, 

On  soaring  mountains  strong  and  glad  ; 

No  gorgeous  banners  flaunt  the  skies,  — 
But  all  the  scene  is  calm  and  sad. 

Yet  here  and  there,  along  the  plain, 
A  flower  lights  up  the  fading  grass  ; 

And  whispering  wind  and  rustling  rain 
Make  gentle  music  as  I  pass. 

And  now  and  then  a  happy  face, 
And  now  and  then  a  merry  thought, 


MY  PALACES. 

Give  to  the  scene  a  pensive  grace, 
The  sweeter  that  it  conies  unsought. 

And,  looking  past  all  earthly  ill, 

I  know  there  comes  an  hour  of  rest,  — 

In  a  dark  palace,  lowly,  still, 
And  sacred  to  the  weary  guest. 


THE    FIFTH    ACT. 

IN  A  DRAMA  OF   CITY  LIFE. 

HOW  bleak  and  dreary  the  streets  are ! 
'T  is  a  wild  and  lonesome  night 
And  the  air  is  full  of  voices,  — 
I  shudder  with  cold  and  fright. 

Ah  me,  for  a  little  fire  ! 

I  will  creep  here  under  the  cart. 
Something  whispers  of  patience ; 

But  I  'm  cold  at  my  very  heart. 

What  is  it  there,  in  the  shadow, 
That  wavers  and  beckons  so  ?  .... 

Nothing  ....  Dear  little  Nelly  — 
Dead,  years  and  years  ago ! 


THE  FIFTH  ACT.  67 

Does  she  know  that  her  poor  old  father 

Is  dying  here  in  the  street,  — 
Frozen,  ragged,  and  hungry, 

With  not  a  morsel  to  eat  ? 

Sweet  Nelly !    1  know  she  loved  me. 

I  remember  her  voice,  her  smile. 
She  is  gone.     Ah  well,  I  shall  see  her, 

Perhaps,  in  a  little  while. 

How  wet  and  cold  is  the  pavement ! 

I  could  pity  my  own  white  hair. 
Alas  !  if  my  heart  were  younger,  — 

But  only  ashes  are  there. 

Is  it  cold  in  the  grave,  I  wonder  ? 

Ah,  the  cruel  and  pitiless  storm ! 
No  matter ;  't  is  all  that 's  left  me  ; 

Thank  God  if  it 's  only  warm. 


THE    OUTCAST. 

THIS  is  the  place  where  he  brought  her 
home,  — 

Home,  —  but  not  to  his  heart,  I  know  : 
For  it  cannot  be  but  her  memories  roam 

To  the  first  and  the  true  love,  long  ago  ! 
Noble  and  lovely  and  wretched  bride, 

Doomed,  in  her  gorgeous  palace  of  stone, 
Loveless  forever,  to  sit  by  his  side, 
And  yet  be,  for  ever  and  ever,  alone ! 

Noble  and  beautiful  spirit  of  love  ! 

Well,  I  could  wish  you  were  happy,  —  though 
I  stand  out  here,  while  the  stars  above 

Are  as  white  and  cold  as  the  ground  below. 


THE   OUTCAST.  69 

I  am  glad  that  the  splendor  is  all  your  own ; 

I  do  not  desire  it  —  ah,  not  I ; 
But  am  well  content,  at  the  foot  of  your  throne, 

To  lie  down  here  in  the  street,  and  die. 

Perhaps  you  would  see  me  then  —  who  knows  ? 

Perhaps  you  would  see,  in  my  haggard  face, 
Whence  they  have  risen  —  your  subtle  woes, 

And  the  something  that  saddens  your  stately 

grace. 
Perhaps  —  ah  me,  I  am  bold  indeed !  — 

Perhaps  you  would  touch  me  !    Heart  and 

brain ! 
I  am  sure  it  would  make  the  old  wound  bleed, 

If  it  did  not  wake  me  to  life  again ! 

They  say  I  'm  a  drunkard  now,  and  a  knave ; 

That  I  riot  and  revel,  by  day  and  night ; 
And  they  're  hoping,  too,  that   I  '11  dig  my 
grave, 


70  MY   WITNESS. 

And  get  forever  out  of  their  sight. 
'T  is  a  hard,  hard  world ;    but  I  think  some- 
times, — 

When  I  think  at  all,  —  could  it  only  know 
The  bitter  root  of  my  follies  and  crimes, 

That  it  would  n't  be  eager  to  hate  me  so. 

No  matter ;  I  love  you  all  the  same. 

'T  was  a  faithful  heart  that  you  threw  away. 
I  can  say  it  now,  and  with  nothing  of  shame, 

For  I  shall  not  live  till  another  day. 
I  can  say,  though  the  night  of  grief  was  long, 

That  the  light  of  morning  struggles  through  ; 
And,  lifted  out  of  my  sorrow  and  wrong, 

If  I  cannot  live,  I  can  die,  for  you  ! 


ACCOMPLICES. 

BLACK  rocks  upon  the  dreadful  coast, 
Mutter  no  more  my  hidden  crime  ! 
1  hear,  far  off,  your  sullen  boast, 
But  I  defy  you !  't  is  not  time  ! 

You  cannot  tell  our  secret  yet ; 

The  trusty  sea  must  keep  its  dead, 
And  many  suns  arise  and  set, 

Before  that  awful  word  is  said. 


I  am  but  young ;  I  've  all  the  grace 
Of  life  and  love  and  beauty  now : 

There  's  not  a  wrinkle  on  my  face, 
There 's  not  a  shadow  on  my  brow. 


72  MY  WITNESS. 

I  cannot  bear  the  darksome  grave  ! 

I  will  not  leave  the  cheerful  sun  ! 
Rave  on  !  in  storm  and  midnight  rave, 

For  years  and  years,  till  all  is  done. 

Till  these  brown  locks  are  changed  to  gray  ; 

Till  these  clear  eyes  are  dim  and  old  ; 
Not  yet,  not  yet  the  fatal  day 

When  all  that  horror  must  be  told  ! 

But,  then  —  gnash  all  your  jagged  teeth, 
And  howl  for  vengeance  !  I  will  come  ; 

And  that  same  cruel  pit  beneath 

Shall  yawn,  and  gulf  me  to  my  home. 

To-day — forbear,  nor  mutter  more ! 

The  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  sea, 
And  all  the  land,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Is  hideous  with  your  horrid  glee. 


PREDESTINED. 

A  CALM,  cold  face,  as  white  and  clear 
As  marble,  and  as  passionless : 
Eyes  darkly  sad,  that  tell  no  fear, 
No  hope,  no  pleasure,  no  distress  : 

A  smile,  that  seems  o'er  all  to  sleep 
As  sleeps  a  sunbeam  on  a  stone ; 

A  quiet  voice,  but  soft  and  deep, 
And  full  of  music,  every  tone : 

A  courtly  manner,  —  he  is  true 

To  social  usage,  and  will  pay 
To  every  one  the  proper  due 

Of  graceful,  stately  courtesy:  — 


74  MY  WITNESS. 

Behold,  an  awful  thought  it  is 

That  such  a  ghastly,  gaunt  despair 

Can  wear  a  shape  so  grand  as  this, 
A  face  so  noble  and  so  fair ! 

For  that  is  not  a  common  grief 

Which  tears  his  heart  and  burns  his  brain 
Who  feels  eternity  too  brief 

For  his  tremendous  trance  of  pain  ; 

Whose  soul  endures  infernal  woes, 
Enchained  by  some  infernal  spell ; 

Who  knows  not  peace,  but  only  knows 
The  lurid,  'withering  fires  of  hell ! 


RUE. 

THE    autumn    wind    is    moaning   in    the 
leaves, 

And  the  long  grass  is  rustling  on  my  grave : 
Ah,  would  you  have  me  think  your  heart  now 

grieves 
For  her  you  would  not  save  ? 

For  I  am  dead  ;  know  you  not  I  am  dead  ? 

Why  will  you  haunt  me  in  my  grave  to-night, 
Standing  above  and  listening  overhead, 

Where  I  am  buried  deep  and  out  of  sight  ? 

Have  you  not  wine  and  music,  in  your  home, 
And  the  fair  form  and  eyes  so  pure   and 
proud 


76  MY   WITNESS. 

"With  love  of  you  ?  and  wherefore  do  you  come 
To  vex  me,  lying  silent  in  my  shroud  ? 

Seek  your  new  love !    She  calls  you,  and  the 

tears 
Are  warm  on  her  pale  face,  and  her  young 

breast 

Is  full  of  doubt  and  sorrow,  —  for  she  hears 
Low  whispered  words  that  startle  her  from 
rest. 

In  from  the  night !  the  storm  begins  to  stir. 

I  will  be  near,  and  ghostly  eyes  shall  see 
How  you  will  kiss  her  lips  and  say  to  her, 

"  Thine  always,  love,"  —  as  once  you  said  to 
me. 


CHRISTMAS  VERSES. 

MERRY  voices,  have  your  way ! 
Thrill  us,  lovely,  laughing  eyes ! 
Turn  December  into  May, 

Underneath  these  frosty  skies ! 

Shake  out  all  your  sunny  curls, 
Golden-shadowed  in  their  flow, 

Romping  boys  and  rosy  girls, 
And  skip  gayly,  as  ye  go  ! 

Laugh,  ye  grown-up  children,  too ! 

What  though,  sober  in  your  glee, 
Sweet  old  memories  glimmer  through, 

Of  the  days  that  used  to  be  ? 


78  MY   WITNESS. 

Twine  your  brows  with  myrtle  leaves, 

If  the  roses  all  are  dead : 
'T  is  a  thankless  heart  that  grieves 

Over  days  of  pleasure  fled. 

There  are  buds  that  yet  shall  ope, 
There  are  flowers  that  yet  shall  blow, 

Sweeter  than  the  faded  hope, 
Or  the  dream  of  Long  Ago : 

Buds  of  promise,  rich  .and  rare  ; 

Flowers,  the  holy  types  of  bliss  ; 
Opening  in  a  purer  air 

And  a  gentler  clime  than  this. 

Ring  the  joy-bells,  all  around  ! 

Hail  the  sacred  Christmas  morn  ! 
For  the  peace  of  life  is  found, 

And  the  hope  of  heaven  is  born. 


CHRISTMAS    VERSES. 

Peace  —  for  every  weary  heart, 
Hope  —  for  every  struggling  soul, 

joy  —  that  never  can  depart, 
Love  —  to  consecrate  the  whole. 


79 


TWO    POETS. 

READ  AT  THE  BROUGHAM  FESTIVAL,  AT  THE  ASTOK  HOUSE, 
N£\V  YOKK,  APRIL  4,  1869. 


ONCE,  where  the  Alpine  hills  arise 
In  glad  desire  to  meet  the  day, 
There  wandered,  under  summer  skies, 
A  youth  as  glad  and  free  as  they. 

Serenely  sweet,  his  gentle  face 

Could  charm  and  comfort  and  subdue  ; 
And  friends  he  found  in  every  place, 

And  every  friend  he  found  was  true. 

At  noonday,  resting  in  the  shade, 
At  eve,  beside  the  cottage  door, 


TWO  POETS.  81 

His  songs  he  sang,  his  flute  he  played, 

And  laughed,   and   talked   his  wanderings 
o'er. 

The  birds  made  music  round  his  way ; 

In  music  spoke  the  answering  streams ; 
And  all  the  world  was  lapped  in  May, 

And  peopled  from  a  land  of  dreams. 

He  scattered  pearls  where'er  he  trod, 
Sweet  fancy  to  pure  thought  allied  ; 

And  they  who  sow  these  pearls  of  God, — 
They  are  not  gone  although  they  died. 

He  passed  away,  his  work  complete, 
A  book  of  gold  to  keep  his  fame.  — 

Forever  stainless,  bright,  and  sweet 
Is  GOLDSMITH'S  dear,  immortal  name ! 


82  MY   WITNESS. 

II. 

The  same  green  isle  that  gave  him  birth, 

In  after-time,  inspired  anew, 
Sends  forth  a  soul  of  kindred  worth, 

A  mind  as  clear,  a  heart  as  true. 

He  walks  the  world  through  brilliant  years, 

In  trouble  as  in  triumph,  gay ; 
He  wakes  our  laughter,  wins  our  tears, 

And  lightly  charms  our  cares  away. 

In  him  conjoined  once  more  we  view 
High  powers  to  conquer  and  command : 

The  heart  to  feel,  the  hand  to  do,  — 
The  Irish  heart,  the  Irish  hand. 

Too  proud  a  man  to  cringe  and  fawn ; 

Too  plain  a  man  for  trick  and  game ; 
To  great  to  put  his  soul  in  pawn, 

And  flourish  on  the  fruits  of  shame. 


TWO  POETS.  83 

Haply  he  misses  golden  gain, — 

But  his  the  wealth  that 's  prized  above, 

(Precious  forever !  without  stain  ! ) 
Honor,  and  dear  and  faithful  love ! 

Our  manly  love  is  not  the  least 

Of  all  the  laurel  that  he  wears: 
To-night  he  sits  with  us,  at  feast : 

JOHN  BROUGHAM  is  the  name  he  bears. 

God  bless  that  name,  and  keep  it  bright ! 

A  beacon,  in  these  evil  days, 
Of  one  who  kept  his  conscience  white, 

Through  troublous  scenes  and  devious  ways. 

And  when  at  last  (far  hence  the  day ! ) 

His  work  is  done,  his  story  told, 
Be  that  dear  name  inscribed  for  aye 

In  Fame's  immortal  book  of  gold ! 


ROSEMARY. 

"  That  'sfor  remembrance.1'' 

THE  moonbeams  on  the  water  sleep 
In  breathing  light ; 

And  tender  thoughts  and  memories  keep 
My  soul  to-night. 

Shades  of  sweet  hours  forever  gone 

Come  all  unsought, 
And  waves  of  mournful  joy  dance  on 

The  stream  of  thought. 

A  dreamy  influence  seems  to  rise 

From  other  years  — 
A  solemn  bliss  that  dims  the  eyes 

With  happy  tears. 


ROSEMARY.  85 

Life  wears  the  glow  of  rosy  grace 

That  once  it  wore, 
And  smiles  are  lit  on  many  a  face 

That  smiles  no  more. 

The  gentle  friends  I  used  to  greet, 

All,  all  are  here  : 
All  forms  are  fair,  all  voices  sweet, 

All  memories  dear. 

All  happy  thoughts,  all  glorious  dreams, 

That  once  were  mine, 
Rise  in  the  tender  light  that  beams 

From  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

But  something  in  the  heart  is  wrong,  — 

The  joyous  sway, 
The  spirit,  and  the  voice  of  song 

Have  died  away. 


86  MY  WITNESS. 

These  winds  that  on  their  cloudy  cars 
Sweep  through  the  sky, 

These  wandering,  watching,  deathless  stars, 
My  prayer  deny. 

These  low,  sweet  murmurs  from  the  land 

And  from  the  sea, 
These  waves  that  kiss  the  silver  sand 

Speak  not  to  me. 

And  not  to  me  one  voice  shall  speak 

Forevermore, 
Though  the  same  waves  in  beauty  break 

On  the  same  shore. 

Alas !  to  youthful  hearts  alone, 

That  love  her  well, 
Dear  Nature  makes  her  secrets  known, 

And  yields  her  spell. 


ROSEMARY.  87 

To  them  her  heavenly  songs  are  sung 

Of  love  and  peace, 
But  when  the  heart 's  no  longer  young, 

Those  voices  cease. 

Shine  stars,  break  waves,  and  murmur  blast, 

And  night-dews,  weep ! 
To  wait  is  left  me,  and  at  last 

The  dreamless  sleep. 


AZRAEL. 

COME  with  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must, 
Evangel  of  the  world  to  be, 
And  touch  and  glorify  this  dust,  — 

This  shuddering  dust  that  now  is  me, — 
And  from  this  prison  set  me  free ! 

Long  in  those  awful  eyes  I  quail, 
That  gaze  across  the  grim  profound  : 

Upon  that  sea  there  is  no  sail, 
Nor  any  light  nor  any  sound 
From  the  far  shore  that  girds  it  round  : 

Only  —  two  still  and  steady  rays, 

That  those  twin  orbs  of  doom  o'ertop ; 


AZRAEL.  89 

Only  —  a  quiet,  patient  gaze 

That  drinks  my  being,  drop  by  drop, 
And  bids  the  pulse  of  Nature  stop. 

Come  with  a  smile,  auspicious  friend, 
To  usher  in  the  eternal  day ! 

Of  these  weak  terrors  make  an  end, 
And  charm  the  paltry  chains  away 
That  bind  me  to  this  timorous  clay ! 

And  let  me  know  my  soul  akin 
To  sunrise  and  the  winds  of  morn, 

And  every  grandeur  that  has  been 

Since  this  all-glorious  world  was  born, 
Nor  longer  droop  in  my  own  scorn. 

Come,  when  the  way  grows  dark  and  chill ! 

Come,  when  the  baffled  mind  is  weak, 
And  in  the  heart  that  voice  is  still 

Which  used  in  happier  days  to  speak, 

Or  only  whispers  sadly  meek. 


90  MY  WITNESS. 

Come  with  a  smile  that  dims  the  sun ! 
With  pitying  heart  and  gentle  hand ! 

And  waft  me,  from  a  work  that 's  done, 
To  peace  that  waits  on  thy  command, 
In  God  's  mysterious  better  land. 


SPRAY. 

I.  —  CHARITY. 

SHOULD  tender  friendship  keep  the  rhym- 
er's name, 

May  this  be  said  of  me,  when  I  am  gone : 
Weak  was  his  will,  —  therefore  he   suffered 

much, 

In  the  rude  warfare  of  this  stormy  world  ; 
Yet,  striving  to  be  strong,  in  patient  toil, 
And  knowing  his  own  weakness  and  his  sin, 
Was  gentle  to  the  faults  of  other  men. 

II.  —  PRESENTIMENT. 

I  know  not  what  unholy  spell 

Weighs  on  my  heart  and  binds  my  brow ; 


92  MY   WITNESS. 

But  only  —  there  is  nothing  well, 
And  nothing  as  it  should  be  now. 

I  know  not  if  there  be  despair 
In  such  a  wayward  mood  as  this  ; 

I  only  know  that  something  fair 
Was,  and  is  not,  yet  ever  is. 


III.  —  A  NIGHT  SKY. 

This  canopy  which  overhangs  the  earth 
Is  like  the  broad  plain  of  a  holy  life, 
And  the  bright  stars  which  glitter  in  the  arch 
Mean  the  good  deeds  whereby  't  is  sanctified. 


iv.  —  A  RELIC. 

I  would  not  give  this  little  flower,  • 
Withered  and  wasted  though  it  be, 

For  the  supremest  bliss  of  power, 
Or  fortune's  proudest  pageantry. 


SPRA  Y.  93 

For  in  this  little  flower  I  hold 
A  charm  from  every  sin  to  save  ; 

And  when  at  last  my  heart  is  cold, 
I  trust  to  wear  it  in  my  grave. 

V.  —  FADING  HOPE. 

Hope's  sweet  day  is  wellnigh  dead ; 
Fast  its  radiant  dream  has  fled ; 
And  my  youth  is  almost  sped, 

Sunset  floods  the  west. 
Sunset  shadows  wrap  my  soul, 
And  a  little  time  shall  roll 
One  dark  cloud  above  the  whole ; 

Death  shall  give  me  rest. 

vi.  —  THE  HEART'S  ANCHOR. 
Think  of  me  as  your  friend,  I  pray, 

And  call  me  by  a  loving  name  : 
I  will  not  care  what  others  say, 

If  only  you  remain  the  same. 


94  MY   WITNESS. 

I  will  not  care  how  dark  the  night, 
I  will  not  care  how  wild  the  storm ; 

Your  love  will  fill  my  heart  with  light, 
And  shield  me  close  and  keep  me  warm. 

Think  of  me  as  your  friend,  I  pray, 

For  else  my  life  is  little  worth  : 
So  shall  your  memory  light  my  way, 

Although  we  meet  no  more  on  earth. 
For  while  I  know  your  faith  secure, 

I  ask  no  happier  fate  to  see ; 
Thus  to  be  loved  by  one  so  pure 

Is  honor  rich  enough  for  me. 

VII.  —  DEATH. 

He  who  dwells  overmuch  on  death 
Misses  true  life  and  goes  astray. 

We  are  not  bounded  by  our  breath, 
Nor  are  we  prisoned  in  decay, 
When  the  high  soul  has  gone  away. 


SPRAY.  95 

VIII.  —  THE  COMFOKTER. 

Him  most  I  honor  who  can  make  us  wise, 

Patient  in  trouhle,  steadfast  to  the  end ; 
Arching  our  lives  with  ever-cloudless  skies. 

And  making  death  itself  a  tender  friend. 
For  what,  in  all  this  world  of  strife  and  pain, 

Is  sweet,  is  permanent,  hut  tranquil  faith 
That  through  our  toil  and  suffering  we  shall 
gain 

Triumphant  rest  within  the  gates  of  death ! 


IX.  —  EEEBUS. 

There  's  a  mossy,  sunken  grave, 
In  the  solemn  land  of  dreams, 

All  alone ; 

Where  the  dusky  hranches  wave 
O'er  the  hanks  of  sable  streams, 
With  a  moau : 


I 
96  MY  WITNESS. 

A  dull  sky  spans  it  overhead 

Like  a  tomb ; 
The  wan  stars  glimmer  far  away 

In  the  gloom ; 
And  a  pallid  moon  gleams 
On  the  haunts  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  ghouls  and  the  demons  play. 
And  the  souls  that  wander  here 
See  each  other  very  clear ; 
And  remember,  —  but  weep  not ! 
Remember,  —  but  sleep  not ! 

Remember,  —  but  cannot  pray  ! 


X.  —  BLACK  AXD  BLUE. 


Here 's  a  health  to  the  lass  with  the  merry  black 


eyes 


Here  's  a  health  to  the  lad  with  the  blue 
ones! 


SPRAY.  97 

Here  's  a  health  to  first  love,  as  it  sparkles  and 

flies, 
And  here  's  joy  to  the  hearts  that  are  true 

ones! 
Yes, — joy  to  the  hearts  that  are  tender  and 

true, 

With  affection  that  nothing  can  smother ! 
To  the  eyes  of  the  one  that  are  brilliant  and 

blue, 
And  the  merry  black  eyes  of  the  other ! 

Mind  you  this,  now,  my  laddie,  with  sweet  eyes 

of  blue, 

That,  however  the  graces  invite  you, 
There  is  nothing  for  you  in  this  world  that  will 

do, 

But  a  pair  of  black  eyes  to  delight  you ! 
And  mind  you,  my  gay  lassie,  whose  dear  eyes 

are  black, 

In  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  to  discover 
7 


98  MY   WITNESS. 

The  pure  light  of  affection  you  never  should  lack, 
And  you  '11  always  be  true  to  your  lover  ! 

Long,  long  shall  your  eyes  sparkle  back  an  arch 
kiss 

To  the  eyes  that  live  but  to  behold  you  ; 
Long,  long  shall  the  spell  of  a  mutual  bliss 

In  a  heaven  of  comfort  enfold  you  ! 
And  forever  to  you  shall  that  poet  be  wise, 

Whose  sweet  thought  is  the  truest  of  true 


That  the  answering  lustre  of  merry  black  eyes 
Is  the  life  of  a  pair  of  true  blue  ones. 


XI.  —  FREE  AND  EASY. 

How  blest  his  heart  who  knows  no  part 

In  all  the  cares  that  be  ! 
Who  sails  beneath  a  summer  sky, 

Upon  a  summer  sea ! 


SPltA  Y.  99 

No  sorry  care  frowns  anywhere, 

To  fright  away  his  glee ; 
0,  is  it  not  a  happy  lot, 

So  merry  and  so  free ! 

In  idle  ways  his  careless  days 

Fly  over,  one  by  one  ; 
And  when  one  hour  of  pleasure  's  flown, 

Another  is  begun. 
0,  is  it  not  a  happy  lot, 

So  merry  and  so  free, 
To  sail  beneath  a  summer  sky, 

Upon  a  summer  sea ! 

And  I  am  he  whose  heart  is  free 

From  longing  and  from  woe  ; 
I  do  not  care  what  might  have  been, 

Nor  how  the  world  may  go ! 
Nor  hopes  nor  fears  nor  smiles  nor  tears 

Are  anything  to  me, 


100  MY  WITNESS. 

For  I  sail  beneath  a  summer  sky, 
Upon  a  summer  sea ! 


XII.  —  THE  LAST  SCENE. 

Here  she  lieth,  white  and  chill ; 

Put  your  hand  upon  her  brow ; 
Her  sad  heart  is  very  still, 

And  she  does  not  know  you  now. 

Ah,  the  grave  's  a  quiet  bed ; 

She  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  the  tears  that  you  may  shed 

Will  not  wake  her,  —  therefore  weep  ! 

Weep,  —  for  you  have  wrought  her  woe  ; 

Mourn,  —  she  mourned  and  died  for  you 
Ah,  too  late  we  come  to  know 

What  is  false  and  what  is  true. 


SPRAY.  101 

XIII.  —  CHOSEN. 

Warm  winds  of  joy  caress  her  face, 
Rich  waves  of  music  round  her  roll, 

And  Nature  glows  with  novel  grace, 
Responsive  to  the  awakened  soul. 

Wide  open  to  the  glorious  sun 

She  lifts  clear  eyes  of  perfect  trust, 

Assured  that  when  this  life  is  done 
It  ends  not  in  the  idle  dust. 

The  earth  puts  on  a  gladder  light, 
In  many  a  new-born  grace  displayed ; 

And,  humbled  at  the  wondrous  sight, 
She  prays,  as  when  a  child  she  prayed. 

The  pitying  eyes  of  Heavenly  Love 
Have  seen  her  where  she  walked  alone, 

And,  bending  from  His  throne  above, 
The  Father  claims  her  for  His  own. 


102  MY   WITNESS. 

XIV.  —  A   CREED. 

There  's  change  in  times,  in  fashions,  manners, 

speech ; 
There  's  change  in  parties,  governments,  and 

creeds ; 
There  's  the  exchange,  whose  poisonous  fingers 

reach 
The  heart  of  commerce,  and  it  straightway 

bleeds ; 
There  's  change  in  what  we  learn,  and  what 

we  teach  ; 
There  's  change   in  what   one  writes,  and 

what  he  reads ; 
There  's   change   in   everything,  or  —  not   to 

mock  it  — 
In  everything  except  a  poor  man's  pocket. 

I  like  experience,  though,  howe'er  it  tells, 
For  or  against  me  ;  all  is  one  at  last. 


.S7-7M  r.  103 

These  hearts  of  ours  are  much  like  soundless 

wells, 

"Wherein  the  shining  pearls  of  truth  are  cast ; 
And  very  happy  he  who  rightly  spells 

The  sweet  and  bitter  lessons  of  the  past, 
For  only  thus  he  comes  himself  to  know,  — 
Which    all    his    knowledge   is,   as   Pope   will 
show. 

I  like  experience,  therefore.     I  have  had 
My  share  of  blows  and  bruises  ;  but  I  think — 

Let  it  be  good,  indifferent,  or  bad  — 

The  "  wine  of  life  "  's  a  very  decent  drink. 

Yet,  if  a  man  lives  on,  and  don't  go  mad, 
When  finally  he  trembles  on  the  brink 

Of  death,  I  judge,  thoiigh  certain  poople  threatit, 

The  chances  are  that  he  will  not  regret  it. 

I  relish  self-dissection  ;  for  I  woo 

All  knowledge,  and  this  process  finds  it  out. 


104  MY  WITNESS. 

I  love  to  judge  between  the  false  and  true  ; 

Blow  off  the  dust  of  romance  and  of  doubt ; 
Break    error's    crust    and    let    the    sunlight 
through  ; 

Ope  mystery's  doors  ;  give  bigotry  the  knout : 
I  love  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  great, 
And  all  the  noblest  hopes  in  man's  estate. 

I  love  to  laugh  when  other  people  sneer ; 

Am  fond  of  pleasure,  nor  averse  to  pain  ; 
I  have  found  wisdom,  sometimes,  in  a  tear ; 

I  have  been  gay,  and  sad,  and  gay  again. 
I  love  my  sorrows,  though  they've  cost  me  dear. 

I  love  my  dinner,  but  did  not  complain 
When  I  had  none,  which  sometimes  was  the 

case ; 
For  even  that  may  be  a  means  of  grace. 

I  love  my  friends,  —  they  're  mostly  books,  — 
and  they 


SPRA  Y.  105 

Are  always  faithful ;  at  my  foes  I  laugh. 
What  Mr.  Blank  and  Mrs.  Grundy  say 

Affects  me  not.     I  love  at  times  to  quaff 
A  health  to  those  who  love  me  ;  and  I  pray 

That  honest  men  may  not  be  caught  with 

chaff. 

So  in  a  patient,  dreamy  way  I  live, — 
Get  what  I  can,  and  give  when  I  can  give. 


THE   WORLD'S   MARTYR. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 
I. 

ORDAINED  to  work  the  heavenly  will, 
An  angel  coraeth,  sent  from  far ; 
And  Nature  feels  another  thrill, 
And  love  has  lit  another  star. 


n. 

At  sweetest  rest 

Upon  his  mother's  breast 

Heaven's  little  wanderer  lies  ; 
While  that  fond  mother  dreams  of  Paradise, 
And  talks  with  angels,  looking  in  his  eyes. 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  107 

III. 

Earth  seemed  more  beautiful  because  of  him. 
In  woodlands  dim 

Rare  flowers  were  born ; 
And  limpid,  chattering  brooks  — 
The  Poet's  earliest  and  brightest  books  — 
Spake  of  a  new  delight 

Unto  the  morn  ; 
And,  in  the  night, — 

When  fairies,  sporting  underneath  the  moon, 
In  airy  glee, 
Kept  revelry, 

Making  the  darkness  beautifully  bright 
As  brightest  noonday  in  the  heart  of  June,  — 
Every  wavelet  laughed,  and  after 
Seemed  to  chase  its  own  delicious  laughter, 
Till,  spent 

In  emulous  merriment, 
It  fell  asleep  in  some  secluded,  cool, 
Translucent  pool. 


108  MY   WITNESS. 

On  meadows  gemmed  with  daisies 
The  wild  bee  swooned,  in  mazes 
Of  languid  odor,  more  bewitching  far 
Than  orient  perfumes  are. 
All  natural  objects  seemed  to  catch  a  rare 

and  precious  gleam. 
The  happy  little  birds 
Uttered  melodious  words, 
All  indistinct,  though  sweet,  to  mortal  ears ; 
Such  as  a  Poet  hears, 
With  joy,  and  yet  with  tears, 
In  some  ethereal  revcry,  half  vision  and  half 

dream. 

In  breezy  tree-tops  jocund  voices  trilled, 
And,  deep  in  slumberous  caverns  of  the 

ocean, 

Wild  echo  heard,  and  with  an  airy  motion, 
Tossed  back  the   greeting  of  a  heart  o'er- 

filled 
With  gladness,  and  that  speaks  it  o'er  and  o'er, 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  109 

Till  bliss  can  say  no  more. 

The  waves,  that  whispered  on  the  silver  sands, 
Told  the  glad  secret  unto  many  lands  ; 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  blessed  him,  from 

above, 
With  golden  smiles  of  love. 

IV. 

All  this  transpired  in  mythologic  days, 
When  Nature  sympathized  with  Man, 
And  votaries  were  born  to  Pan, 

For  joy  ordained,  and  for  that  Maker's  praise. 
Thus  consecrated,  grew  the  chosen  child ! 
At  first,  as  is  the  violet,  mild, 
Close  clinging  to  the  enamored  earth 
Wherefrom  his  being  had  its  birth  ; 
A  bud  of  hope,  a  triumph  over  death  ; 
Inhaling  happiness  with  every  breath, 
And  breathing  blessings  ere  his  little  mouth 
Attained  the  power  to  speak. 


HO  MY  WITNESS. 

Then  in  the  flight  of  hours 

Gaining  new  powers, 

His  budding  childhood  bloomed  at  length 

Into  a  perfect  flower  of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

And  then  his  spirit  spread  its  wings 

And  bore  him  upward  on  the  air  of  morn  ; 
Bathed  in  which  vital  fragrance  he  was 

born 

Into  communion  with  all  sensuous  things. 
His  eyes  beheld  the  world  as  one  expanse 
Of  glory,  —  as  a  sea  of  bliss  whereon 
A  sun  of  free  and  rippling  splendor  shone, 
Kissing  the  silver  waves  in  liquid  dance. 
And  radiant  o'er  this  tide  a  kingdom  rose, 

Shining  from  out  the  deep, — a  land  all  bright 
With  visions,  such  as  love  and  hope  disclose, 

Ere  yet  experience  comes,  in  clouded  night : 
Gardens  and  palaces  and  tapering  spires, 
Sweet  odors,  sparkling   founts,  and  softest 
airs ; 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  HI 

Divinest  music  by  seraphic  choirs, 

And  loveliest  ladies,  singly  or  in  pairs  ; 
Eternal  summer-time,  and  all  that 's  best 
In  hope's  celestial  dream-land  of  the  blest ! 

He  saw,  and,  ravished  at  the  sight, 

Hungered  for  all  he  saw,; 

Resolving  that  his  own  sweet  will  should  be 

his  only  law. 
Thus  Nature  told  him  half  her  mystic  truth,  — 

Life  's  earliest  good, 

Not  earliest  understood, — 
In  one  immortal  utterance, 

Youth ! 

v. 

Ah,  rosy  time  !  when  heart  and  eyes 
Are  bright  and  warm  with  new  desire ; 

When  o'er  us  broaden  diamond  skies, 
And  in  us  burns  a  heavenly  fire  ; 

When  Grandeur  waves  an  august  hand, 
And  points  us  to  her  empty  throne ; 


112  MY   WITNESS. 

And  Beauty,  hard  to  understand, 

By  right  divine  seems  all  our  own ; 
When  life  is  moonlight,  love,  and  song, 

And  Cupid  sends  his  darts  by  dozens ; 
When  to  love  cousins  is  not  wrong, 

And  all  the  girls,  of  course,  are  cousins ; 
When  cross  papas  are  waked  at  night 

By  flutes  that  toot  beneath  the  casement ; 
And  dogs  that  bark  but  never  bite 

Charge  out  on  lovers,  from  the  basement ; 
When  geese  are  swans  and  sages  bores, 

And  budding  whiskers  manhood's  measure, 
And  tavern  wines  and  tavern  scores 

The  chief  ingredients  of  pleasure  ;  — 
When,  in  effect,  it  seems  that  we 

Are  gods  —  by  mortals  underrated  — 
Arriving,  for  felicity, 

Into  a  world  but  just  created  ! 
Ah,  could  that  rosy  fire  but  burn 

Till  sextons  toll  the  solemn  parting, 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  H3 

No  man  on  earth  would  ever  learn 
How  great  a  fool  he  is  at  starting. 

VI 

Now,  there  's  no  difference  in  the  feather 

That  decks  the  several  tribes  of  geese ; 
And  boys  are  boys,  no  matter  whether 

In  ancient  or  in  modern  Greece. 
And  so  it  was  my  little  hero, 

When  grown  at  length  to  youth's  estate, 
Wrote  down  his  eager  soul  at  zero 

Before  a  beauteous  female  fate  ; 
In  holy  ardor  burned, 
And,  with  a  lover's  tender  patience,  learned 

To  worship  and  to  wait. 
It  was  the  old,  old  tale,  forever  new 
While  hearts  are  noble  and  while  faith  is  true. 
For,  evermore  a  glorious  Far  Away, 

Where  all  our  pure  and  sweet  ideals  dwell, 
Preserves  the  record  of  one  sacred  day 

8 


114  MY   WITNESS. 

When  youthful  passion  wove  its  earliest  spell ; 
When  angels  spoke  in  every  wind  that  blew, 
And  heaven  itself  seemed  opening  on  our  view, 
And  we  were  happy  in  bewildering  bliss. 
Crowned  with  a  maiden's  love,  sealed  with  a 

maiden's  kiss. 

His  life  was  all  enchantment ;  in  his  veins 
Flowed  liquid  fire,  and  in  his  violet  eyes 
Burned  the  unearthly  light  of  mysteries 
Breaking   upon   his   soul,   which   spurned   its 

chains, 

To  rove,  in  realms  of  summer  fancy,  far, 
And  free,  and  brilliant  as  a  wandering  star. 

VII. 

And  she,  the  Ionian  queen,  the  pearl 
Of  beauty,  —  born  to  curse  or  bless, 

The  dusk,  voluptuous,  radiant  girl, 
The  miracle  of  loveliness,  — 

What  was  she,  that  a  Priest  of  Pan, 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  115 

From  sacred  altars  wooed  to  stray, 
Should  thus  adore  a  child  of  man, 

And  cast  immortal  peace  away  ? 
Ah,  youthful  eyes  are  often  dazed 

By  charms  that  age  is  fain  to  stare  for ; 
While  sober  wisdom,  much  amazed, 

Can  neither  tell  the  why  nor  wherefore  ! 
To  lovers  only  love  is  sane  ; 

They  comprehend  its  every  antic,  — 
The  hope,  the  fear,  the  doubt,  the  pain, 

The  pleasure  sweet,  the  passion  frantic ; 
While  marvels  the  parental  mind 

That  boys  should  pine  in  melancholy, 
And  wonders  what  on  earth  they  find 

In  Annie,  Julia,  Bess,  or  Molly. 
But,  truth  to  tell,  this  paragon 

Youth  well  might  choose  to  be  its  goddess ! 
For  splendor  burned  her  brows  upon, 

And  passion  throbbed  beneath  her  bodice. 
And  thus  the  enamored  Pagan  sung, 


116  MY   WITNESS. 

As,  straying  oft  in  lonely  ways, 
He  nursed  his  hurt  and  breathed  her  praise, 
The  mountains  and  the  vales  among : 

1. 
Bring  every  rich  and  radiant  hue 

That  earth  and  sky  and  sea  unfurl ; 
From  flowers  that  gleam  in  silver  dew, 

From  rainbow  arches,  clouds  of  pearl ;  — 
Bring  all  the  diamond  tints  of  morn, 

The  sheeted  gold  of  gorgeous  noon, 
The  wondrous  pageants  that  adorn 

The  o'erwhelming  sunset  skies  of  June ; 
The  solemn  starlight,  sweetly  pale  ; 

The  lustre  of  the  moonlit  sea, 
O'er  which  our  raptured  spirits  sail, 

In  fancy's  golden  argosy ; 
All  that  a  poet  dreams  of  grace  ! 

All  $hat  a  wandering  wood-nymph  sees ! — ' 
You  cannot  match  my  darling's  face 

With  any  or  with  all  of  these.  - 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  117 

2. 
The  mountain  wind  is  not  so  fresh ! 

The  lily's  leaf  is  not  so  fair ! 
And,  though  a  daughter  of  the  flesh, 

She  seems  a  spirit  of  the  air ! 
Her  heart  is  fire,  her  eyes  are  flame  : 

Her  presence  dims  the  rainbow's  sheen ; 
Her  brows  would  put  a  crown  to  shame ; 

She  moves,  a  Grace,  and  is  a  Queen  ! 
Her  voice  is  clear  and  sweet  and  strong 

As  winds  that  sport  in  summer's  dawn, 
And  merrier  than  the  wild-bird's  song, 

"Where  woodland  brooks  go  murmuring  on ; 
But  neither  brook  nor  bird  nor  breeze, 

Nor  clouds  that  float,  nor  streams  that  run, 
Nor  jlower  nor  fruit  nor  grass  nor  trees 

Can  thrill  my  soul  as  she  has  done. 

VIII. 

This,  in  the  depth  of  his  mysterious  life, 

Heard  the  calm  earth-god,  and  his  heart  was 
sore, 


118  MY   WITNESS. 

That  one  ordained  his  poet  evermore 
Should  thus  with  fate  be  sinfully  at  strife. 
And  much  he  mused,  and  o'er  his  noble  face, 

Pure  with  eternal  health,  a  shadow  grew,  — 
A  sternness  foreign  to  its  tender  grace, 

A  sadness  foreign  to  its  sunny  hue  ; 
For  pity  tempered  justice  in  his  breast, 
And  grief  was  there,  —  an  unaccustomed  guest. 

IX. 

Then  rose  a  chorus  sweet  of  mingled  tones, 
From  trees,  and  running  brooks,  and  earth,  and 

stones, 
From   mountains   grim,  and   depth  of  lonely 

dells, — 

Where'er  serene  the  sylvan  spirit  dwells, — 
A  wild,  tumultuous  tide  of  melody, 
Which,  kissed  by  echo,  softly  died  away 
Into  one  clear  and  solemn  voice  of  son"- 

O 

Entrancing  summer  as  it  swept  along  :  — 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  119 

1. 

Can  he  give  away  the  freedom  from  the  earth 

he  doth  inherit, 

The  happiness  and  grandeur  of  a  destiny  sub- 
lime ? 
The  wings  of  immortality,  that   lift  his   airy 

spirit  — 

A  victor  over  trouble  and  a  monarch  over 
time  ? 

2. 

Can  he  give  away  the  fragrance  of  the  dewy 

morning  roses  ? 
The  lustre  of  the  waters  and  the  music  of  the 

leaves  ? 
All  the  cloudy  groves  of  heaven  where  the  star 

of  love  reposes  ? 

All  the  fragrant  woodland  places  where  the 
waiting  Naiad  grieves  ? 


120  MY   WITNESS. 

3. 

Can  he  give  away  the  promise  of  the  beckoning 

Ideal, 
The  pure  and  simple  pleasure  of  an  innocent 

desire  ? 
Can  he  worship  at  the  altars  of  the  gross  and 

worldly  Real, 

And  prefer  a  sordid  passion  to  his  own  celes- 
tial fire  ? 

4. 

0,  it  cannot  be  he  spurns  the  god  who  wrapt 

his  soul  in  splendor, 

On  whose  bosom  he  was  cradled  in  the  bud- 
ding of  his  years ; 

Who  has  loved  him  with  a  love  so  vast,  divinely 

true  and  tender, 

/ 
And  whispered  Nature's  secrets  in  his  rosy 

little  ears ! 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  121 

5. 

No  —  't  is  but  the  passing  shadow  of  her  dan- 
gerous, bad  beauty,  — 
The  blinding  Siren  of  the  World,  who  tempts 

but  to  betray. 
I  will  shield  him,  I  will  save  him,  I  will  lead 

him  back  to  duty  ; 

Through  a  solemn  night  of  anguish  he  sluill 
pass  to  sacred  day. 

6. 

Let  him  wake  from  this  delusion  when  aban- 
doned in  the  hour 
He  learns  that  love,  in  worldly  hearts,  is  but 

a  film  of  lies  ; 
While  tli3  fire  which  burns  within  his  own  is 

holy  in  its  power 

To  illume  the  patli  of  destiny  and  lift  him  to 
the  skies. 


122  MY   WITNESS. 

X. 
It  fell  as  falls  the  angry  summer's  frown 

On  velvet-petaled  flowers  that  thirst  and  die. 
It  fell,  and  withered  all  his  proud  renown, — 

A  shaming  sense  of  base  idolatry  ! 
It  fell  upon  his  heart,  and  thus  he  knew 
That  whom  the  gods  protect  they  punish  too. 
Then  his  frame  wasted,  and  his  vigor  fled, 
And   beauty's  gold  was   tarnished   round  his 

head, 

And  all  the  currents  of  his  life  ran  slow, 
And  his  soul  sunk  and  sickened  'neath  the  blow. 
No  more  adorned  in  Tyrian  dress 

With  emerald  clasp  and  golden  chain  ! 
A  wretched  wreck,  in  sore  distress, 

He  tottered  through  the  streets  with  pain  ; 
And  they,  who  knew  him  once,   beheld  with 

scorn 

The  wanderer,  broken,  friendless,  and  forlorn. 
And,  seeing  what  had  once  been  grand  and  fair 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  123 

Was  now  o'erladen  and  o'erwhelmed  with  care, 
Sinking  in  dire  misfortune  and  despair. 
Even  she,  tha  Ionian  queen,  the  Pearl 

Of  Beauty,  —  known,  alas,  too  late!  — 
Beheld  him  plunged  in  ruin's  whirl, 

And,  sneering,  left  him  to  his  fate. 

XI. 

Then  madness  seared  his  brain,  and  on  his  face 

Wrote  horror,  and  his  frighted  spirit  fled 
Through  caves  of  pain,  or  in  an  arid  place 

Of  desolation  tottered,  where  the  dead 
Seemed   gibbering    round   him ;    and,   among 

them,  lo ! 

A  phantom,  beautiful  beyond  compare, 
Who  lured  him  with  her  eyes,  and  made  him 

swear 

Eternal  love,  —  then  mocked  him,  in  his  woe. 
He  made  the  lofty  mountain-tops  his  home, 
The  earth  his  bed,  and  shrieked  in  horrid 
glee; 


124  MY  WITNESS. 

Nor  feared  in  depth  of  darkest  dells  to  roam, 

Where  prowled  fierce  beasts,  —  but  not  so 

fierce  as  he. 
At  last  the  day  came  back,  the  storm  was  stilled, 

And  his  worn  reason  woke  to  life  again ; 
And  presently  he  knew  the  doom  fulfilled 

Of  destiny,  and  all  the  past  was  plain. 
He  saw  the  withered  fruit  upon  the"  ground, 

But  not  the  less  he  saw 
This  but  a  step  in  the  eternal  round 

Of  Nature's  sacred  law. 
Thus,  after  darkness  and  despair, 
Came  sunshine  and  the  morning  air. 

XII. 

Then,  touched  by  lightning  of  God's  eyes, 
He  spake  in  prophecies, 
Interpreting  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  skies,  — 
All  that  in  Nature  is  of  mystery, 
All  that  in  Man  is  dark ; 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  125 

All  that  the  golden  future  is  to  be, 
When  quenched  this  vital  spark, 

And  souls  imprisoned  are  at  last  set  free. 

Backward  he  looked  across  the  eternal  sea, 
And  on  the  ever-lessening  shores  of  time 

Saw  ghosts  of  ruined  empires,  wandering 
slow. 

Then,  looking  forward,  saw  the  radiant  bow 
Of  promise,  shining  o'er  a  heavenly  clime. 

And  thus  he  knew  the  messenger  that  brings 

The  knowledge  of  the  nothingness  of  things  ; 
Thus  Nature  taught  him  all  her  mystic  truth, — 

Hope,  the  rich  fruit  of  Youth, 
And  that  wherein  all  doubt  and  trouble  cease, 

The  fruit  of  patience, 
Peace. 

XIII. 

At  last  came  Death,  a  gentle,  welcome  guest, 
And  touched  his  hand,  and  led  him  into  rest. 
Time  paid  its  tribute  to  eternity,  — 


126  MY   WITNESS. 

A  pure  soul,  ripe  for  the  immortal  day,  — 
And  earth  embraced  his  ashes :  cold  their  bed, 
For  now  the  aged  year  was  also  dead. 

The  winter  wind  shrieked  loud,  in  hoarse 

alarms, 

The  keen  stars  shivered  in  the  midnight  air, 
And   the   bare   trees   stretched   forth   their 

stiffened  arms 
To  the  wan  sky,  in  pale  and  speechless 

prayer ; 
Prayer  o'er  a  new-made  grave,  where  Naiads 

kept 
A  solemn  vigil,  singing  (and  some  wept)  :  — 

Speak  softly  here,  and  softly  tread,  » 

For  all  the  place  is  holy  ground 

Where  Nature's  love  enshrines  her  dead, 
And  Earth  with  blessing  folds  them  round. 

Be  not  the  sacred  silence  stirred, 
That  slumbers  on  his  pallid  brow, 


THE    WORLD'S  MARTYR.  127 

By  any  rude,  ungentle  word 
That  mortal  lips  can  utter  now. 

He  rests  at  last ;  the  World,  far  off, 

Runs  riot,  in.  her  mad  excess ; 
But  now  her  plaudit  and  her  scoff 

To  him  alike  are  nothingness. 

A  kind,  true  spirit  this !     "  Not  good," 
The  blind  fools  said.      He  went  his  way, 

Admired,  maligned,  misunderstood, 
Till  glory  closed  his  sombre  day. 

lie  learned  in  depths  where  virtue  fell 
The  heights  where  honor  may  arise  ; 

He  measured  down  the  abyss  of  hell, 
He  scaled  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

But  all  he  felt  and  all  he  saw 

Taught  only  (what  the  wild  bird  sings) 
That  law  is  pence,  that  love  is  law, 

And  lord  of  life,  and  king  of  kings. 


NOTE. 

"Love's  Ideal "  —  page  27  —  contains  these  lines  :  — 

And  her  voice  is  soft  and  low, 

Clear  as  music,  and  as  sweet ; 
Hearing  it,  you  hardly  know 

Where  the  sound  and  silence  meet. 

Long  after  writing  this,  I  met,  for  the  first  time,  with  the 
reference,  in  Knowles's  "  Virginius,"  to  the  voice  of  Virginia, 
so  delicate 

"  That  nothing  comes  Hwixt  it  and  silence." 

"Accomplices."  Page  71.  —  For  a  literary  reason,  not 
necessary  to  be  here  stated,  the  author  records  that  this 
poem  was  written  an  published  in  1861. 

"Black  and  Blue"  —  page  96  —  was  suggested  to  me  by 
a  sentence  in  Goethe's  "  Wilhelm  Meister"  :  "To  look  on  a 
pair  of  bright  black  eyes  is  the  life  of  a  pair  of  blue  ones." 

"The  World's  Martyr" — page  106  —  was  written  for 
public  delivery.  Hence  the  variety  in  the  form  of  the  verse, 
as  also  the  introduction  of  facetious  passages.  It  will  be 
perceived  that  an  inaccurate  use  has  been  made  of  the  myth 
of  Pan,  that  god  being,  for  the  purpose  of  the  allegory, 
invested  with  spiritual  sanctity.  But  it  is  hoped  that  this 
intentional  error  will  be  excused,  in  consideration  of  the  truth 
which  the  poem  aims  to  suggest.  "The  World's  Martyr" 
was  spoken  by  me  before  the  Literary  Societies  of  Brown 
University,  at  Providence,  Ehode  Island. 

W.  W. 

FOHT  HILL,  Staten  Island,  N.  Y., 
August  24, 1871. 


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